It starts as coincidence.

Fezco O’Neill works nights—long ones. He shows up at the coffee shop just before sunrise, hoodie pulled low, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. Same order every time. Black coffee. No sugar. No rush.

You work mornings.

You clock in while the sky is still pale blue, hair tied back, apron slightly crooked, always yawning at the same time he walks through the door.

At first, you don’t really notice each other.

You’re too focused on the espresso machine screaming at you. He’s too focused on staying awake long enough to make it home.

But somehow—some way—you keep meeting.

The first time you really look at him is when you mess up his order.

You apologize too fast, flustered, hands shaking as you remake it. Fez just watches quietly, then says, “It’s all good. Ain’t in a hurry.”

You don’t know why that sticks with you.

Most people are in a hurry.

By the third week, you recognize him before he reaches the counter.

Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Same calm presence that feels out of place in a shop full of rushed commuters.

You start making his coffee before he orders it.

He notices.

One morning he says, “You got a good memory.” You shrug. “You’re easy to remember.”